


the (never) ending boy

by sugarglassss



Series: oh dear angel [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Family Issues, First Meetings, Hurt John Laurens, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, also john: -compliments alex’s eyes every two seconds-, it’s a really nice story i swear, john: lol i’m not gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27236074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarglassss/pseuds/sugarglassss
Summary: A strong pair of arms wrapped around him, andpulled.(Or; John stands on the edge of a bridge, Alex stops him)
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & John Laurens, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Series: oh dear angel [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2027599
Comments: 21
Kudos: 125





	the (never) ending boy

John remembered the sky. God, it was the only thing he could remember clearly from that day. It was endless, and he could see the stars shining on this part of the city. He was so enchanted by the scenery that he didn't note movement besides him. He didn't hear the shaky breathing and the sound of heels clicking. He felt her warm hand —always warm, no matter the bitter cold— and the chaste kiss on top of his head. _I love you, mi ángel.  
_

The loud splash was what snapped him out of his daze. It was so dark, the only source of light coming from their car parked on the middle of the street. His momma wasn't next to him anymore. He called her name; nothing. He cried louder, looking for the familiar long skirt he buried himself into when he got upset, her petite feet that bounced while they danced together, her sad smile and wild curls. He wailed for her, who knows for how long, until an old gentlemen sporting a funny hat found him. The good sir pieced one and two together and before he knew it, police sirens blared from the distance. _What's your name, hun?_ John Laurens. _Age?_ I'm seven years old, m'am. She asked more questions he doesn't remember of. He was looking for his momma, but no trace of her could be found. The old man was still holding him, surprisingly strong for his age. That's all he recalls.

Time passed, he got taller an didn't get as absentminded anymore. He preferred to call it daydreaming, anyways. He grew up with his step-siblings, his dad marrying again three years later. He loved his siblings with all his heart, truly, but his step-mother Laura couldn't compare to his momma, they never clicked. Who knows why. Sometimes at night he thought of his momma's embrace, her genuine smile that appeared once in a full moon, taking up her entire face. His extended family from her side told him how much his own smile was like momma's, when he cracked it every now and then. How much he was like her. It was a heavy truth on his shoulders, something he was unable to escape and was just there to pester him. Remind him.

_You're so artistic, John! Just as Eleanor was._

_Why the long face? You're always upset, John. Is not fair for me._

_She's not his mother! Don't ask him that!_

_Your hair is just like hers, son._

He just wanted it to _stop._

He's never been truly alright, or maybe he has been, once. It's not only the death of his momma —which happened right in front of him, isn't that _hilarious_?— that was a constant fault in his life. So many things were wrong, or seemed wrong. Where to begin, his father's expectations, living up to the burden of the family name, stigma in school for beating up some — _fucking cocksucker!_ — asshole; he can't even remember — _didn’t want to remember_ — the reason of the fight, just that the guy was a total jackass. Stupid violence made him feel _good_ , made him feel something that wasn't numbness. If only he could punch his heart away, the stupid shit making everything harder on him than it already was. It wasn't his fault that he stared a tad too long at some guy's back, or the handsome quirk of their lip.

No. _Stop it._

He couldn’t sleep. Too much time to think. He either ate nothing or everything, just wanting to feel satisfied and not hollow inside. The situation felt so damn hopeless. As if he was trapped against a moving wall, the thing just waiting to squish the life out of him. Then the bad thoughts came in. The first time he contemplated on a way to stop it, to finally make the storm inside him end, he was absolutely terrified. _How could I- There's no way. No damn way, no, no, no way—_

Months passed, and the dark thoughts came and went frequently, like a silent mercy making itself present. An escape from the noise and numbness. He was just so goddamn _tired._ Tired of the expectations, the shame, the emptiness of everything and the constant fear. He felt out of control of his every action, his extremities being pulled and pulled until his good for nothing body gave out from the mere stress. It was his fault _. It's always been._

_And maybe if things were different—_ he thought as he stood on the edge of the cliff by the restless city, always awake even in the depths of night. _Maybe if momma didn't jump, or if I stopped her. Maybe if i was less brash, less sensitive, more of a man. Just like dad wanted,_ that formed a sneer on his lips. He looks up to the sky, the crisp wind blowing against his skin. _I'm sorry Martha, Henry, James and little Mary. I'm sorry Laf. I'm sorry._

He looked down to his shaky hands, his vision blurry from unshed tears. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. _I'm so sorry, momma—  
  
_

A strong pair of arms wrapped around him, and _pulled._

Suddenly, he wasn't on the edge of the bridge. His eyes shot right open, and he braced himself for the landing. But instead, he landed on-top of a warm body, their legs spread out on the rough street. His sense of motion was off and he felt very confused, as if he was woken abruptly from a dream.

The arms were still around his mid section, tan and fragile looking. _How did such frail arms carry that much strength?_ He couldn't judge though, his own appearance weak looking as well. John didn't know how to react to the person who had just pulled him down to the ground, he didn't know if he was grateful or bitter. He didn't know if he cared at all.

Then, there was no warmth. He fell backwards, no strength left in him, the landing not as harsh as it should have been. The darkness made it barely possible to see his surroundings, the only source of light being New York and the streets. A boy suddenly stood in-front of him, well, not boy exactly but not man either. His mind blurred the memory years later, but he could still recall the striking eyes that pierced through him that day. _What have those eyes seen to seem so alive?_ Remind you, he was an artist, not a poet.

Now that he thinks of it, that was the difference between them. Alive eyes, dead ones.

"Are you alright, man?" The boy said, his face full of worry. "You gave me such a scare! Jesus, I know the sight is beautiful and all, but you really gotta be careful when standing on the mere edge, yeah?" a nervous laugh left the boy, looking at him more closely. "I mean I was coming from work and I see this person standing for the whole world to see, and at first I thought you were an angel or some shit because of the pose and light, also it's midnight so my vision isn't the most trusting, but then I remembered how slippery it gets this time of year so— _Jesus!_ I haven't even asked if you're hurt, you good, man?"

John was so mesmerized by the speed this boy was going by, he didn't know what to say. The drastic tone change left him shaken. Just one second ago he was about to— to—

He puked on the spot next to him.

"Oh god," John wheezed, one hand on his clammy forehead. "Oh my fucking _god_ , I was, I— I was about to…" He tried to puke again, but nothing came out. His heart was going by a mile and he felt exhausted, sweating profusely.

The boy crouched next to him —the side were there was no puke, of course—, his hands awkwardly raised in-front of him, not knowing where to reach. "Hey, hey, it's okay," He started, his voice soft. "Everything is okay, we're here. You're safe." The boy put one hand on his shoulder, comforting him. John couldn't understand how he could say that so surely, like it was a mere fact. That everything would be okay. Before he knew it, his cheeks were wet and his nose runny. His shoulder sagged, and something broke out of him that had been hidden for years.

He cried for a long time, the boy's warm hand stayed on his shoulder while he whispered quiet reassurance. He cried and cried until his head hurt and there was no more tears left.

"I'm sorry," John said to the boy, shame rising through him. "I'm sorry you— you had to see that." God, he really was useless, wasn't he? Couldn't even kill himself right, he was _that_ pathetic.

"Don't be sorry about that!" the boy said, his voice genuine, "You shouldn't be sorry about anything man, God," He sat next to him instead of crouching. "Do you.. do you need to call someone? A friend? family? I— I can call 911 if you need—”

" _No!_ " he shouted, his heart skipping a beat. If news of him got out for attempting...God, his father would kill him first before anything else. "Please don't call 911, please." He thought about calling Laf, but he couldn't do that to them. He just, he just couldn't.

A quiet settled between them. "You can talk to me then," that made him snap his head to the boy's direction, meeting eyes with those wonderful of his. "People tell me I'm great at advice, well academic advice mostly, but! I'm good at talking, and if you need to get something off your chest or a solution.." he looked down to his lap, his brows furrowed. "What I mean, I can lend an ear."

"You don't know me," he snapped, sounding weak and angry. "Why— I know you probably feel guilty or pity me or some _shit,_ butdon't go offering things you won't stay for in the long run. Just," John couldn't do this, not again. "Just leave me alone, I won't do anything...” He paused, taking a shaky breath, “Anything dangerous if that's what you're worried about. It's fine. _I'm fine._ " He looked down to his hands, his nails biting the inside of his palm.

"You're telling me to leave you alone when you were about to jump off the bridge, what, two minutes ago? You think I'm stupid?" John flinched at the words. "Sorry, sorry, that was the wrong way to go about it. I'm— I just don't want to leave you by yourself, okay? You don't look like you want to be alone."

He got madder. Being angry didn't let him be hurt. "Dude, just _fuck off_ —" his gaze met with the boy's, and he swallowed his words. He was beginning to feel helpless, as if he was fighting a loosing battle. John was known for stubborn, but when he looked into those beautiful eyes — _his eyes can’t be beautiful you idiot_ — he felt nearly defenseless. Perhaps he should take the small mercies in life, and what did it matter now, he had readied himself to die, for his story to finally end but here he stood. Still existing. Dead eyes, alive ones.

The boy stretched his hand out, his palms adorned with rough callouses but delicate trimmed nails. "The name's Alexander Hamilton." he said.

John stopped for a moment, he thought of small feet and sad smiles. _Fuck it._ "John Laurens."

* * *

  
"So," the never ending boy asked. "Wanna talk about it?"

They were walking down the bridge, Hamilton by the side that faced the edge. _As if that could stop me,_ he thought bitterly _I could make a run to the other side. My legs are longer._ He ignored his mind. Hamilton had his beat down bike next to him, the thing making a very irritating screeching noise. He ignored that too. They were in accompanying silence for a good minute, but the boy was unable to not voice his thoughts every minute. John didn't know if he liked that or not.

"Not really." He answered noncommittal, his hands deep in his pockets and eyes glued to the street.

"That's cool," which wasn't what he expected to be the response. Better than the pushy route that most people upped to. "How about we do something fun, then?"

John stole a glance, feeling nervous. Alex didn't seem like a bad guy, but definitions of ‘fun’ varied a lot from person to person. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well," Hamilton started, his expression cheeky. "When I feel like shit, which mind you it comes and goes, I usually try to take the stress out, y’know? Unleash all that pent up energy, or get the adrenaline going if I'm feeling depressed. Make ya feel real good and shit."

"I'm not doing drugs."

Hamilton barked a laugh at that. It's a really nice laugh. "Jesus, like I can afford them. Do I look like a drug dealer to you? It's the hoodie isn't it," the boy's smile was lopsided and his teeth were definitely crooked. It just made it more endearing. "Nah man, this method is totally free _and_ effective. Look, I'll just show you, hop on my bike?"

And by bike he meant the rusty, too big to ride scrap that was besides him. John gave him a dubious look that won him another laugh. "Don't look at me like that! It may look crappy but I swear this motherfucker is faster than anything you've ridden in your life." Hamilton said, and accusatory finger pointing at the sky.

"I've never ridden a bicycle." John responded, eyeing the worn down backseat.

"You've never what?" Hamilton said incredulously. "You take the train, then?"

"I have a car."

"A _car_!" Hamilton scream-laughed, John felt a little embarrassed. "You're trippin' me. Didn't peg you as a rich boy."

John flared up at the jab. "And why’s that?" There wasn't any reason to put a front at the comment, but John was defensive by nature.

"You carry yourself differently, fucking assholes wouldn't even deem me worth of talking with," Hamilton said with a sharp smile. "Which I understand, me being better than them and all."

John snorted at that. Hamilton smiled wider and wilder.

"Dear Laurens," he said with a playful tone, extending his hand from the bike. "Do you trust me?"

"Of course not." John responded as he positioned himself in the backseat.

"Ha! Smart," Hamilton smiled that dangerous way of him. "Let's ride!"

And they went off.

* * *

"We're uptown." John said, looking at the brick buildings surrounding them, walls mounted with tacky signs and graffiti. The graffiti looked really cool, though.

"Welcome to the 'hood, baby" Hamilton responded, taking an unnecessary sharp left. "Or formally known as _‘El Barrio’_ , sweet-oh-sweet home."

It's been roughly 40 minutes since they've been riding the damn bike and John's ass started to hurt half an hour ago, however he didn't want to come off as whiny. The ride had been a good distraction, Hamilton talking about everything he could grasp at, and boy was it a lot he could. John’s been drifting in and out of the conversation, making it obvious his full attention wasn't in there. Hamilton didn't seem to mind. In the journey, John learned some pretty interesting facts:

  1. Hamilton was coming back from his night shift at Target. _I have three jobs,_ he said with pride, _Weekdays by the local library, weekends at the Target and I sell academic essays, 20 bucks each._ John was amazed by this.



_"How much do you make?'_

_"Around 500 bucks per week, but those are the good weeks. I've just started four months ago, so I still got a long way to go."_

_"What are you saving for?"_

  1. _College_. Columbia if we're being specific. Hamilton had a plan; get a scholarship to Columbia Law School, major in criminal defense and economics with a minor in something else, he didn’t remember. Get's his J.D degree —basically a law degree— and become an attorney, or a financial advisor if law didn’t work out. There were many more complicated stuff going into that plan, but that was basically the tip of the iceberg.



_“Why do you want to be a lawyer?”_

_"It makes mad good cash, if you’re good of course, and the insurance is phenomenal," He paused for a moment. "It also helps you build a name for yourself, so you aren't forgotten."_

  1. Hamilton’s in the foster system, has switched in-and-out for four years. He's now living with a couple in their mid forties, five more foster kids staying in the same house. He's been there for 5 months, but he doesn't think he's going to stay long-term.



_"It's a hunch." Hamilton continues. "I know they're confused with what to do with me, a ‘problem child’ with a top notch GPA," His hands squeezes the handles, John notes. "Not that I give a damn, I'm just waiting for some people to provide into my education, don't care if they love me or not."_

John could see the lie, he stayed quiet.

"We're here!" Hamilton yelled, stopping the bike abruptly, making John go head first into his back.

"Be gentle!" John shouted, rubbing his nose. "God, you shouldn't be permitted on a bike, you ride like a madman."

"Yeah, but I saved us some good 15 minutes," Hamilton responded quickly. "I told you my bike was fast. Come on, get your ass off so I can show you the good stuff."

John grudgingly stepped off the bike and felt better, stretching his back until it popped. Hamilton led out a noise of disgust at it. He then went to hide his bike behind a dumpster so no one would dare to steal it, muttering about some assholes trying in the past or something. John led himself take in his surroundings; the street was dark, light coming from cheap light-up signs or the dim streetlights. There were people on the street, because it was fucking New York, mostly groups of wanna-be-thugs or bums coming from the club. John furrowed deeper into his pockets, the cold getting into him. He looked expectantly at Hamilton.

Hamilton was a step farther than him, though, heading into a barely-there house hidden from view, a place that looked just like a hotspot for crackheads.

"Um, no," John stated loudly, he could almost see his breath in the cold air. "There's no way I'm going there, Hamilton, get the fuck outta here." He hugged himself, looking at the broken windows in the shack.

Hamilton disheveled self kept going, fumbling for something in his backpack. "It's Alexander! Also, don't act so tight, it's safe. Cross my heart." He turned around and made a crisscross motion on his chest. With a glorious _‘Aha!’_ he took out a rusty looking key. He jammed it to the keyhole, took him a few tries to open it, nonetheless the door unlocked with an eerie creak. John still stood stubbornly by the street as he watched Alexander go in.

"Come on! I swear I'm not going to kill you. Ya' scared or something?" Alexander deviously smiled from inside the house. John really wanted to flip him off, so he did. Another laugh.

"You know I don't care about that," John walked towards the creepy house, stupid pride making him do it. "I've never been scared in my life." He said childishly.

"Never?"

" _Never._ "

Alexander stomped the watered down floor making it creak loudly. John flinched at the sound as Alexander barked out a laugh. "Shut up, man." John murmured, however led himself privately smile at the dumb exchange.

The inside of the house was dull, there's no better word for it. Even in the dark he could piece out the outline of the furniture, the ugly wallpaper and webs hanging all around the house. He spotted a dead rat next to the worn-down couch, _how charming_. Alexander was rummaging inside his 'jack-of-all-trades' backpack again, pulling out a flashlight. He turned it on, tapped it twice until it lit up. He shone it to John's face, making him wince.

They stood in silence for a moment, staring at the interior of the abandoned house.

"Well, this is it" Alexander said, flailing the light around the room. "I like to call it ‘shit-hole’, a shitty place to project my shitty feelings," He continued up to the second floor, the staircase creaking loudly. "You ready to fuck some shit up?"

John silently followed him, not feeling like talking. They went up the loud stairs until they arrived at a narrow hallway, one door on each side. Alexander continued down the hall, opening the left door which led to a torn down room. There were glass shards on the rugged floor, a baseball bat next to a box full of mismatched glass bottles, another sofa that was more teared down that the one downstairs, with what seemed to be knife cuts, and a bunch of other shit. Alexander went to the bottle box, grabbed two of them and handed one to John.

"This house is basically mine," Alexander started. "It belonged to my cousin, so I use it when I want to break shit."

John looked down the bottle. "Break shit?"

"Yeah," and immediately after threw the glass bottle to the wall opposite to him, the bottle breaking harshly with a loud crack.

John cringed at the sound. "You drove me all this way to throw bottles? Someone’s gonna call the cops.”

Alexander smiled, "Throw the damn bottle, Laurens."

"It's John," He responded harshly. Laurens. He hated that name. He hated the worth it held and the burden he had to carry for it. The damn legacy, the damn thing he had to live up to everyday and— _God!_ He felt so _sad_ , and he didn't even know fucking why. He didn't know if he deserved to be sad; he wasn't poor, he wasn't hungry, he was so damn privileged and what, just because his momma killed herself, that was a good enough excuse? Dad was right, he was ungrateful, he didn't try hard enough. _Son, when we go in, hold yourself together, for once. You’re a damn Laurens, you hear me?_ Son, it didn't even feel like an endearment, it felt like a rank. As if he was below him, as if he was already an embarrassment and he just put up with him. It made him so damn _angry_. Anger was easy, lashing out at the world until all it left were ashes, and the dull throbbing in his head. He heard Alexander call his name. He looked down at the bottle, the whirlwind in his mind getting bigger and bigger. He threw the bottle with all his anger, all his pain, all his bitterness and doubt.

**_CLASH!_ **

_For my dad,_

**_CRASH!_ **

_For my momma,_

**_CRACK!_ **

_For myself—  
_

He threw until the box was empty and the floor was shinning with glass. They fell into quiet, once again, only John’s breathing filling the room. Who knows for how long they stayed like that.

Alexander, as always, talked again. "Where are you staying tonight?"

John gave him a hum, not trusting himself to talk, yet. He didn't want to go to his house, the mere idea made him want to puke. He couldn't sleep in a park or alley, he was very bad at sleeping anywhere that wasn't a bed, like the rich fucking boy he was. _Maybe I won’t sleep at all, stay awake until there’s no choice but to pass out._ Lafayette would always nag at his sleeping habits, even though they did the same.

_Laf._

"I should go to my friend's house," John begins. "They're name is Lafayette, great friend. I'll take the subway, just let me.." He pated his pockets, looking for his metro card. "Shit, I didn't bring.." He goes further more, maybe there was a stray lucky buck, but he didn't find anything, just an old paper. He groaned in frustration, then looked back to Alexander, awkwardly.

"I'm sorry, I know you're saving and all—" Before he could finish, the other was shoving a fivey at his face. John reluctantly took it, feeling like scum.

"It's good, man, anything you want," Alexander said with such assurance. He stood besides him and patted him in the back, leading him back into the hallway. "You just gotta pay me the next time you see me, yeah?"

John's shoulders trembled, and he nodded, a shaky sob leaving him.

* * *

Alexander walked with him to the nearest station. When they got there, the silence between them was dubious. John didn’t know what to say. Alexander probably did though, he always had an answer ready for everything and anything. John thought of all that happened that night —or morning?—, it almost seemed false, his world rocking from one place to another. He felt inside a dream, once again, in that moment, protected from all the wrong doings of life in the dark of the city. He looked at Alexander, really took him in this time. He was smaller than him, but he carried himself with such confidence that made him seem bigger. _Greater_. John knew he wouldn’t see this kid ever again, and maybe that’s the reason that God sent him this small mercy, to let him breathe once more. He would grow old and reminisce about the boy who saved his life in his youth, the boy who was full with life and dared anyone to get between him and his path to glory. Because that’s who Alexander Hamilton was, he was someone meant to be remembered, and even if they never crossed paths again, those eyes would accompany him for a lifetime.

In that moment, he realized, he also wanted to be remembered. Not by history, but by this never ending boy. He burrowed his hands in his pockets, fiddling for the scrap of paper he had felt earlier. He pulled it out, a folded paper that was quite wrinkled. He pulled it out to Alexander, giving no explanation. 

“Don’t open it here,” John said, his gazed stuck to Alexander’s left shoulder. “I’m gonna get embarrassed by it, uh,” He was getting nervous by the minute, his jaw feeling heavy. “Thank you for— for everything, and for giving me money for the ride. You really saved me.” _Literally._

Alexander brushed his hair out of his face, and smiled. “John,” Alexander started, but stayed quiet, he also seemed out of words. The boy licked his lips nervously, John looked away. “I could tell you a million reasons to keep breathing, but none can phantom the need of it,” He grabbed his shoulder, his hand warm. “Shit, people care about you, and if there isn’t anybody right now, well, I care, and many in the future will too,” They locked eyes, John was scared to even breathe. “Stay alive until then, yeah?”

John stiffly nodded, his eyes burning. And for the first time in that night, he smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> hope y’all enjoyed! idk if i’m doing a sequel for this, depends if people like it! i made Alex v mature and okay but he is very not okay, so i’ll mayhaps explore that in the sequel
> 
> peace!


End file.
